(Poems for Paintings) The Shepard and The Hunter.

The sun was slow to rise at dawn. As I took my flocks for their morning walk through the hills.

Keeping a watchful eye as all good shepherds do. Scanning for any potential danger.

The thunder clouds roll in the distance, hiding the warm glowing rays from the hills.

The flock has begun to grow wary of the coming storm; Mother Nature’s wrath is firm.

I feel the coming rains in my achy bones as it races ahead fast approaching.

The hills hold no shelter for the Shepard and his flock so it is required of them to return home.

The first pitter patter of rain falls on the muddy earth underfoot.

He pace quickens are the droplets begin to seep through onto his skin.

The dampness chills his skin; not wanting to catch his death he herds his flock in haste.

In a stampede fashion the sheep rush the gate to their pen swarming inside and the shepherd swings it closed behind them securing the latch.

His job is finished and he slips in his cottage warming by the lit fire as mother nature’s tears knock at his window.

 

 

 

Hunting season is in full swing, hunters parading through the woods neon and all.

Patience is the key to this game, it serves big rewards if your patient enough to play.

My patience is waning, I’ve perched myself for well over 9 hours and not a single buck has been glimpsed.

I can feel him though, stealthy and hiding in the background not wanting to be found.

Slowly I slid from the tree to its base, my feet crunch slightly at the added weight of my foot.

My head snaps up as I listen. Had I scared it off? The thought was sickening but no. I could hear him he stood his ground.

A breathe escaped my lips as raised my gun around the trunk of the tree setting my sights on the deer.

Not yet. I help my finger just over the trigger bidding my time for a good shot. Not quite there.

Not yet. I coached, he’s almost there. Almost, but not quite…There he is!

My finger squeezed the trigger. Bam.